


Only Yours

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Grace Kink, Jealous Gabriel (Supernatural), Possessive Sex, Smut, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: You help Sam back to the room after a long night of drinking.   He gets a little close for comfort, something Gabriel is not pleased with.





	Only Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my tumblr follower celebration.  
> Requested by: @girl-next-door-writes  
> Character: Gabriel  
> Quote: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”  
> Kink: Calming the others anger (with sex)

 

“You’re pretty, you know that?” Sam slurs his words from the passenger side of your car and you resist the urge to roll your eyes as you try to half-drag, half-help him out of the vehicle.  You know it’s the alcohol talking.  He isn’t too unlike his brother in that he lights up at anything with a pair of breasts and a decent face.  He just needs to hit a certain level of intoxication first.  

 

He has to be caught in one hell of a dry spell to be flirting with you, however.  

 

“You’re heavy, you know that?” you say dryly, finally getting him to his feet, though most of his weight lands on you as he lurches forward.  You manage to maneuver him to your side, his arm draped across your shoulders as you begin the slow and thankfully short walk to the motel room.  

 

“I’m being sherioush,” he insists, sounding almost miffed  _ you  _ aren’t.   

 

The man is  _ sherioushly  _ going to feel it come morning after the ridiculous amount of whiskey, tequila, and rum he downed tonight.

 

You prop him against the building, hoping he’ll stay upright long enough for you to fish out the room key.  

 

“I - I’ve got - it’sch…” his hand is groping for it, fingers failing to find a way into his pocket.  It’s comical, the way his head drops down, brows drawn together in intense focus as he tries to figure out how his pants work again.  

 

You pull the key out, waving it in front of his face to get his attention.  He finally looks up, movements stilling as he squints at the object in front of him, as if almost not quite believing it’s real.  He looks back down at his pocket, glowering, as if somehow betrayed by it.  

 

“How’d you get that?”  He asks, clearly forgetting he gave it to you right before you left the bar.  

 

“I’m a wizard.”  You can’t help the sarcasm that pours from your mouth as you turn to unlock the door.  You make the mistake of taking your eyes off him, forgetting that tequila turns him into those damn ghosts from the super mario games.  The moment you look away, he slips up behind you, hand splayed out on the door above your head.  

 

Casual is not a word in any drunk Winchester’s vocabulary, and when you turn to ask what the hell he’s even doing you find yourself nose to nose with him.  He gives you a radiant smile, wiggling his brows in a way that’s far more adorable than suggestive.  There was a time you would have gladly let him work his magic on you, but it’s long since past.  You can’t even look at him without seeing your best friend’s brother, and semi-sibling of your own.  

 

Not to mention not wanting to be around for the aftermath if Gabriel ever thought you were leaving him for a Winchester.  

 

“Sweetie, you’re going to want to back up,” you suggest.  

 

He clearly takes this as a challenge, the look turning far more heated as he leans so close his lips brush yours.  “Or what?”

 

He couldn’t say you didn’t warn him.  

 

Without a second thought, you turn the knob, using your body to push open the door as you deftly move out of the way.  Sam’s befuddled mind can’t keep up and neither can his limbs, and you hold back a snicker as he pitches forward.  He lands face down on the dingy shag carpet, and for a moment he just lays there, stunned.  You nudge his feet unceremoniously out of the way, just enough so you can shut the door before hitting the light switch on the wall.    

 

“Get your ass into bed, Winchester, before you really embarrass yourself,” you tell him, wryness colors your words to the point that it’s hard not to sound like you’re mocking him. 

 

Then again, you’re not going to complain if he hands you an arsenal big enough to bury him for the next year at least.  

 

He pushes himself up, sitting back on his knees as he gives his head a slight shake.  “What th’ fuck just happened?”

 

That’s what you thought.  

 

“C’mon big guy,” you tell him, slipping beneath one of his arms as you haul him to his feet again.  He’s too cumbersome and clumsy, however, and while you succeed in getting him up, you can’t keep him that way very long.  He stumbles, his weight pushing into you until you’re both staggering back.  It’s not long before your legs bump against something solid and you both go down.  

 

On one hand, you’re thankful your fall is broken by a soft, if not cheap, motel mattress.  On the other hand, you’re not so pleased to be caught between it and your giant of a friend.  

 

“Oops,” he mumbles, giving you a cheeky grin.  

 

Oh for shit’s sake.  

 

He begins to shake, laughter resonating through his chest and spilling out of his lips.  He rolls off you, flopping onto his back, long limbs hanging off the side of the bed with nowhere else to go as he gives you plenty of space.  

 

“You should have seen the look on your face,” he cackles, and you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.  

 

Chuck, did you hate babysitting drunk Winchesters, though Dean is usually the troublesome one.  Sam is normally just a pain in the ass to lug around because he’s so damn big.  Apparently, he’s also a smartass when he gets bored enough.    

 

You stand up, making your way to your bag across the room.  

 

“I’m going to shower,” you tell him.

 

“Want some company?”  he asks, brows dancing in a way that’s completely familiar, just not from him.  You grab a pillow off your bed and whip it across the room at him.  It thumps him across the face and by the time he pulls it off you’re leveling a wholly serious finger at him.

 

“Behave yourself,” you warn, only half-joking.

 

You’re not certain he’s even heard you.  He’s now in the process of kicking his shoes off while simultaneously trying to drag himself up the bed toward the pillows.  Neither attempt is going well, and he’s somehow managed to get half his body inextricably tangled in the blankets.  

 

You decide the only thing that really matters is there’s a working lock on the bathroom door and he seems intent on calling it a night.  You head in, and the first thing you do is turn the water on, giving it time to warm up as you begin to unbutton your shirt.  You’re only halfway down when the skin at the back of your neck prickles and you feel a presence looming behind you.  Your heart flutters as you whirl, instinctively grabbing for the nearest blunt object. 

 

“Gabriel,” your relief is palpable as you come face to face with your boyfriend.  For a minute you worried you might have to explain to Dean why his brother ended up with a head injury.  

 

“Expecting someone else?”  He asks, quirking a brow as his gaze falls to where your fingers are gripping the hair dryer attached to the wall.  You release it, immediately putting your arms around him and pulling him close.  

 

The last few weeks had been long and grueling.  It wasn’t the long nights, the even longer days, or even the unending flow of cases.  What you weren’t used to was being too busy even for him and it’s the ache of his absence that made things difficult.

 

The way you feel  right now is no different than when you walk into the bunker after being on the road for weeks on end.   _ Home  _ his presence whispers and you want nothing more than to get lost in your angel.  You breath him in, savoring the way he fills your senses on so many levels and how your body immediately relaxes against him.     

 

At least you’re relaxed until he goes and opens his mouth. 

 

“So, what have you and Paul Bunyan been up to this evening?”  He tries to paint the illusion that everything is still casual, but his tone carries an extra edge which draws attention to facetious strokes.  

 

Great.  You’re not sure what mood he’s in, but he’s in one, and usually that means he’s about to pick a fight.  You, however, have spent too much time away from him and are determined not to play into it.  

 

“Missed you,” you murmur, pressing your lips against his neck and using one of the more effective techniques to derail whatever train is about to pull into the station.  You tease along his pulse before taking a quick nip, enjoying the way his breath hitches.  The hands that move around your waist, however, are tight, uncomfortable, suggesting he’s not about to just let whatever’s bothering him go so easily.  

 

You card your fingers through his hair before curling the tips so your nails gently drag along his scalp.  He wants to give in.  Your mouth grazes along his jaw and you can feel the conflict thrumming through him.  He starts to harden as he presses his hips against yours, but that tension remains swirling in the air around you.  

 

Just as you’re about to capture his mouth when he pulls back, the movement as sharp as the edge suddenly lining gold.

 

“You never answered my question,” he reminds you, and there’s a murmur of something beneath his tone that also echoes in the darks of his eyes.  You can’t identify it, knowing only that it’s something you’ve never seen before.  

 

“Gabriel,” you begin, caught between wanting to be the calm to his storm and wanting to throw caution to the wind and tell him how ridiculous he’s being.  

 

“Don’t  _ Gabriel _ me,” he snaps.  “I can smell him all over you.”  

 

Is he being serious right now?  When  _ didn’t  _ you smell like a Winchester considering you lived with them?

 

The way his eyes burn bright and fierce, there’s a whole world of serious brewing beneath the surface. 

 

“He’s drunk,” you explain.  “I had to help him back to the room.”

 

“Sounds like a good excuse for him to put his hands on you,” he retorts.  Realization dawns as you take in that searing tinge that heats the air to the point you can almost smell it burning, like his pride is one second away from going up in flames.

 

**“Wait a minute.  Are you jealous?”** You ask in disbelief.  

 

“Of that giant-human hybrid out there?” he jerks his thumb in the direction of the door and the look he gives you suggests he’s questioning your sanity.  “You’re joking, right?  That’s sasquatch’s long lost cousin.  What is there to be jealous about?” 

 

“Holy Chuck, you  _ are _ ,” you breathe and the revelation stuns you.  

 

“Don’t bring my father into this,” he says peevishly, leveling a finger at you with warning.  “And I am  _ not  _ jealous.”

 

Right.  Just like your underwear is going to survive now that you know about that little possessive streak he has.

 

“So the thought of Sam’s body pinning mine against the mattress --”  the lights give an immediate flicker and you fight to hold back your mirth because the look you receive suggests how very  _ un _ amused the archangel is. 

 

“If he’s touched you…” the implication hangs thick in the air and his fingers dig even harder into you.  The heat from his jealousy ignites across your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake as it sinks beneath the surface, heading straight down to your core.  

 

You place your hands on the side of his face, thumbs caressing over the stubble peppering his cheeks.

 

“I’m yours, Gabe,” your reassure, unconsciously wetting your lips as you suddenly see more of the archangel in his eyes than your boyfriend.  “Only yours.”

 

“Good,” he growls, his mouth coming down so hard against yours your teeth almost collide.  The manic undercurrent humming through him rises to the surface, spilling over onto you through the contact and skittering through your system in a series of shockwaves.   His fingers slip up the back of your head, entwining within your hair before he closes his fist.  The tension has strands pulling taut as he tugs, giving him better access to push his tongue between your lips.  

 

You open for him, your moan becoming muffled.  He insistently probes your mouth, as if seeking out every nook to ensure no other’s taste is lingering there.  His other hand is wildly roaming, grabbing your ass, cupping your breast, taking ownership over every inch he can through your clothing.  You can feel the frustration mounting beneath his fingers, his touch eager to devour skin.  

 

He releases his hold over your hair, both hands joining at the neckline of your undershirt.  A quick downward pull has the fabric ripping and sends the remaining buttons of your flannel scattering.  He’s so eager to get at you you’re surprised he doesn't just snap away the offending garments like he normally does.  

 

He pushes your ruined clothing off your body and you’re already fumbling with the back of your bra in the hope that he doesn't destroy one of the few decent ones you have.  Desire coils hot and tight beneath your stomach as he yanks it off the front of you, thankfully leaving it intact.   Your nipples harden as the moist air from the shower hits your bare breasts.  His palms are rough against them as if trying to leave imprints of himself without actually bruising you.  

 

He leaves the marking to his mouth which tears away from yours only to come down heatedly against the side of your neck.  He sucks greedily, bringing your pulse to the surface in a reminder that it beats only for him.  You can feel the color blossoming in the blissful sting left behind before his tongue tenderly soothes the area.  

Your fingers once again slip through his hair, teasing through the curls at the back of his neck and ruffling those perfect golden strands.  You keep them there, knowing better than to try and go for his clothes.  It’s better to give him absolute control when he’s like this and you’re more than happy to let him have his way with you however he likes.

 

His fingers pinch at sensitive peaks, drawing pleasure to the surface before it slides down between your legs.   You arch into his touch, your hips grinding against him in search of friction.  His name is on your breath, sighing through your lips as he continues to roll your nipples between his fingers.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn't catch that.  Who are you calling for?”  His snark sneaks past his filter, sailing straight off his tongue that’s grazing along your ear.  

 

You’re half-tempted to be just as much of a smart ass back and call for Sam, but you also don't want to be responsible for the man being snapped out of existence.

 

“Gabe,” you moan as his fingers apply more pressure, pushing the line of pain without treading over it.  

 

“Who am I?”  He asks again, and the infiniteness in his tone has you drawing back to look at him.  Liquid amber meets your gaze and on the surface nothing is different, but the glimmer along the borders hint at that ancient, powerful being that he truly is.  No matter what he does, no matter how much control he has, there will always be this piece of him simmering beneath the surface, waiting to be released.  

 

The thought of this should terrify you, instead it floods your system with a heady excitement and anticipation that hasn't been this strong since you first started sleeping together. 

 

“Gabriel,” you affirm, voice loud, distinct,  _ proud _ that he is your archangel. __ You can't see how dilated your own eyes are, how the centers are not only wide but vast pools of dark desire burning as bright as that absoluteness resonating within his own stare.  This is what really strokes his ego, more than any declaration you make ever could.  

 

His lips connect again with yours and this time teeth  _ do  _ knock.  His fingers are tearing at the front of your pants and you're are just as eagerly tugging at his.  Zippers purr in tandem but before you can slip your hand inside denim he snags your wrist, pushing your hand towards your own beltline.  

 

“Off.   _ Now _ ,” he rasps, and the command in his tone sends shivers racing down the length of you.  You do as he asks, quickly stripping yourself of all remaining layers, feet eagerly kicking the clothing aside.  His shirts remain where they are and though his jeans are down around his ankles he’s too busy grabbing behind your thighs and lifting you into the air to step out of them.  

 

You grab his shoulders in an attempt to remain upright, and your breath  becomes a hiss as he immediately sinks you down upon him.  You’re so wet it only takes a few short rolls of his hips before he’s sheathed.  Your walls stretch, trying to accommodate him, and the resulting fullness along with the way his energy slips beneath your skin makes you feel like an extension of him.   

 

He shuffles forward, backing you against the door and those few seconds are all he gives you to adjust before he’s thrusting into you.  You grab the hanging rack above your head, using the bars as leverage to hold yourself up.  Every time his hips meet yours, the metal you’re holding jars against the doorframe, and there’s no attempts from either of you to quiet the racket.  His pace steadily increases and it isn’t long before the entire door is shaking on its hinges.  

 

Sam is going to have to be dead in order not to hear this.  

 

Serves the man right for tackling you.

 

A deep growl erupts from Gabriel’s chest, and the way it's more predatory than pleasurable, you have a feeling he caught that last thought.  

 

You hastily qualify the act as a friendship foul rather than a murderable offense.  

 

You can feel the tension winding through him, creating tightness within his frame that makes his movements stiffer.  You might be imagining it, but you could swear you hear some wood splintering as he braces a hand against the door near your shoulder.  

 

“Need you,” you pant, putting your arms around him until he’s the only thing you’re clinging to for support.  “Stay with me.” 

 

He pushes into you to the hilt, pelvis pinning yours tight against the door, though it's not the only thing holding you up when he takes his other hand away from your leg.  You can feel his grace catch you as you slip a fraction of an inch, the absent palm returning against your cheek.  The contact is insistent, demanding, and wholly gentle in a way that makes your heart sing.   

 

You bring your mouth back to his but this time when they meet the rhythm slows, your kisses punctuated by sweet, gentle nips along his bottom lip intended to remind him of the tenderness you share with no one else but him.  You allow his magic to fully carry your weight, letting go of him to grasp his face between your hands.  You channel every complicated emotion you feel for this being into the way you stroke his cheeks and the way you write your name with the tip of your tongue across his.  

 

For a moment he just holds you there, letting you pull apart his anger thread by heated thread beneath your loving ministrations and you can feel the chaotic buzz beneath his touch begin to dissipate.

 

You can tell when he’s starting to return by how that vibrating energy holding you up finally begins to explore.  It ghosts along the edge of your thighs, dipping down between the juncture where they meet your hips before teasing over the top of your mound.  You moan as it finally circles your clit, stirring up waves of pleasure that begin to lap at your core. 

 

His hands are back at your breasts, cupping them together before thumbs brush lightly over pebbled peaks.  The combination has that band of desire growing taut.  When it snaps, you want him there with you. 

 

“Come with me,” you tell him, hips rocking against his.  He begins to move again, his strokes starting slow and languid.   It doesn’t take him long before his pace increases and once again the door is rattling so loud you imagine it must be close to falling off its hinges.  He eases his grace back, leaving a pleasant hum in place to stall your climb as he resumes his blissful ascent. 

 

You can tell when he’s almost there because the magic goes from whispering across your sensitive spots to a sudden shout, and you throw your head back so hard you’re not sure if it’s the impact or the pleasure that has you seeing stars.  All you know is you are climbing hard and fast to precarious and unfamiliar heights, and you can feel the world fading out around the edges as he brings you to the brink.  

 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he encourages and somewhere on the edge of your awareness you feel his movements begin to stutter.  He’s right there with you, his hips giving a few more erratic thrusts, and as he steps up to your side on that threshold his magic sends you hurtling straight over as a euphoric envelops your system.   Your walls shudder around him and his mouth moves over yours, swallowing your cries just as you take in his as he buries himself one final time, pushing in as far as he can go before he finally begins to pulsate, spilling his seed inside you.  

 

For a moment you just stand there as you each come down from your highs.  Well he stands, you slump over onto him, laying your head on his shoulder and hugging him close as you melt against him.  He moves back from the door, hands returning beneath your legs as he shifts your weight more securely onto him.  

 

You can't remember the last time you felt this complete and satisfied.  Maybe Sam needed to get drunk around you more often.

 

“Not happening,” and by his tone this is non-negotiable.  You can't help but smile. No one’s ever cared enough about you to be this protective.  

 

Your eyes begin to droop as the exhaustion finally hits.  You’re too tired to remind him the chances of you avoiding a drunk Sam ever again are slim to none.  He may be calm but you can tell he’s still not in the mindset to be completely logical yet.  

 

Not that logic has much of a place in your relationship anyway.  

 

Regardless, you’ll save that conversation for another time.

 

“Love you,” you murmur, nuzzling your nose against the curls behind his ear.  You’ve said those words at least a hundred times by now, but you hope they still carry the same weight they did when you first told him how you felt.  

 

“Love you more,” he insists, and the last thing you feel before you drift asleep are the subtle flutter of his wings as they wrap affectionately around you.  

 


End file.
